Idiots First

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Authors: Bernard Malamud

BOOK: Idiots First
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For Ida and Gino
Women and children first.
Old Saying
The thick ticking of the tin clock stopped. Mendel, dozing in the dark, awoke in fright. The pain returned as he listened. He drew on his cold embittered clothing, and wasted minutes sitting at the edge of the bed.
“Isaac,” he ultimately sighed.
In the kitchen, Isaac, his astonished mouth open, held six peanuts in his palm. He placed each on the table. “One … two … nine.”
He gathered each peanut and appeared in the doorway. Mendel, in loose hat and long overcoat, still sat on the bed. Isaac watched with small eyes and ears, thick hair graying the sides of his head.
“Schlaf,” he nasally said.
“No,” muttered Mendel. As if stifling he rose. “Come, Isaac.”
He wound his old watch though the sight of the stopped clock nauseated him.
Isaac wanted to hold it to his ear.
“No, it's late.” Mendel put the watch carefully away. In the drawer he found the little paper bag of crumpled ones and fives and slipped it into his overcoat pocket. He helped Isaac on with his coat.
Isaac looked at one dark window, then at the other. Mendel stared at both blank windows.
They went slowly down the darkly lit stairs, Mendel first, Isaac watching the moving shadows on the wall. To one long shadow he offered a peanut.
“Hungrig.”
In the vestibule the old man gazed through the thin glass. The November night was cold and bleak. Opening the door he cautiously thrust his head out. Though he saw nothing he quickly shut the door.
“Ginzburg, that he came to see me yesterday,” he whispered in Isaac's ear.
Isaac sucked air.
“You know who I mean?”
Isaac combed his chin with his fingers.
“That's the one, with the black whiskers. Don't talk to him or go with him if he asks you.”
Isaac moaned.
“Young people he don't bother so much,” Mendel said in afterthought.
It was suppertime and the street was empty but the store
windows dimly lit their way to the corner. They crossed the deserted street and went on. Isaac, with a happy cry, pointed to the three golden balls. Mendel smiled but was exhausted when they got to the pawnshop.
The pawnbroker, a red-bearded man with black horn-rimmed glasses, was eating a whitefish at the rear of the store. He craned his head, saw them, and settled back to sip his tea.
In five minutes he came forward, patting his shapeless lips with a large white handkerchief.
Mendel, breathing heavily, handed him the worn gold watch. The pawnbroker, raising his glasses, screwed in his eyepiece. He turned the watch over once. “Eight dollars.”
The dying man wet his cracked lips. “I must have thirty-five.”
“So go to Rothschild.”
“Cost me myself sixty.”
“In 1905.” The pawnbroker handed back the watch. It had stopped ticking. Mendel wound it slowly. It ticked hollowly.
“Isaac must go to my uncle that he lives in California.”
“It's a free country,” said the pawnbroker.
Isaac, watching a banjo, snickered.
“What's the matter with him?” the pawnbroker asked.
“So let be eight dollars,” muttered Mendel, “but where will I get the rest till tonight?”
“How much for my hat and coat?” he asked.
“No sale.” The pawnbroker went behind the cage and wrote out a ticket. He locked the watch in a small drawer but Mendel still heard it ticking.
In the street he slipped the eight dollars into the paper
bag, then searched in his pockets for a scrap of writing. Finding it, he strained to read the address by the light of the street lamp.
As they trudged to the subway, Mendel pointed to the sprinkled sky.
“Isaac, look how many stars are tonight.”
“Eggs,” said Isaac.
“First we will go to Mr. Fishbein, after we will eat.”
They got off the train in upper Manhattan and had to walk several blocks before they located Fishbein's house.
“A regular palace,” Mendel murmured, looking forward to a moment's warmth.
Isaac stared uneasily at the heavy door of the house.
Mendel rang. The servant, a man with long sideburns, came to the door and said Mr. and Mrs. Fishbein were dining and could see no one.
“He should eat in peace but we will wait till he finishes.”
“Come back tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning Mr. Fishbein will talk to you. He don't do business or charity at this time of the night.”
“Charity I am not interested—”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“Tell him it's life or death—”
“Whose life or death?”
“So if not his, then mine.”
“Don't be such a big smart aleck.”
“Look me in my face,” said Mendel, “and tell me if I got time till tomorrow morning?”
The servant stared at him, then at Isaac, and reluctantly let them in.
The foyer was a vast high-ceilinged room with many oil paintings on the walls, voluminous silken draperies, a thick flowered rug at foot, and a marble staircase.
Mr. Fishbein, a paunchy bald-headed man with hairy nostrils and small patent leather feet, ran lightly down the stairs, a large napkin tucked under a tuxedo coat button. He stopped on the fifth step from the bottom and examined his visitors.
“Who comes on Friday night to a man that he has guests, to spoil him his supper?”
“Excuse me that I bother you, Mr. Fishbein,” Mendel said. “If I didn't come now I couldn't come tomorrow.”
“Without more preliminaries, please state your business. I'm a hungry man.”
“Hungrig,” wailed Isaac.
Fishbein adjusted his pince-nez. “What's the matter with him?”
“This is my son Isaac. He is like this all his life.”
Isaac mewled.
“I am sending him to California.”
“Mr. Fishbein don't contribute to personal pleasure trips.”
“I am a sick man and he must go tonight on the train to my Uncle Leo.”
“I never give to unorganized charity,” Fishbein said, “but if you are hungry I will invite you downstairs in my kitchen. We having tonight chicken with stuffed derma.”
“All I ask is thirty-five dollars for the train ticket to my uncle in California. I have already the rest.”
“Who is your uncle? How old a man?”
“Eighty-one years, a long life to him.”
Fishbein burst into laughter. “Eighty-one years and you are sending him this halfwit.”
Mendel, flailing both arms, cried, “Please, without names.”
Fishbein politely conceded.
“Where is open the door there we go in the house,” the sick man said. “If you will kindly give me thirty-five dollars, God will bless you. What is thirty-five dollars to Mr. Fishbein? Nothing. To me, for my boy, is everything.”
Fishbein drew himself up to his tallest height.
“Private contributions I don't make—only to institutions. This is my fixed policy.”
Mendel sank to his creaking knees on the rug.
“Please, Mr. Fishbein, if not thirty-five, give maybe twenty.”
“Levinson!” Fishbein angrily called.
The servant with the long sideburns appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Show this party where is the door—unless he wishes to partake food before leaving the premises.”
“For what I got chicken won't cure it,” Mendel said.
“This way if you please,” said Levinson, descending.
Isaac assisted his father up.
“Take him to an institution,” Fishbein advised over the marble balustrade. He ran quickly up the stairs and they were at once outside, buffeted by winds.
The walk to the subway was tedious. The wind blew mournfully. Mendel, breathless, glanced furtively at shadows. Isaac, clutching his peanuts in his frozen fist, clung to his father's side. They entered a small park to rest for a minute on a stone bench under a leafless two-branched
tree. The thick right branch was raised, the thin left one hung down. A very pale moon rose slowly. So did a stranger as they approached the bench.
“Gut yuntif,” he said hoarsely.
Mendel, drained of blood, waved his wasted arms. Isaac yowled sickly. Then a bell chimed and it was only ten. Mendel let out a piercing anguished cry as the bearded stranger disappeared into the bushes. A policeman came running, and though he beat the bushes with his nightstick, could turn up nothing. Mendel and Isaac hurried out of the little park. When Mendel glanced back the dead tree had its thin arm raised, the thick one down. He moaned.
They boarded a trolley, stopping at the home of a former friend, but he had died years ago. On the same block they went into a cafeteria and ordered two fried eggs for Isaac. The tables were crowded except where a heavyset man sat eating soup with kasha. After one look at him they left in haste, although Isaac wept.
Mendel had another address on a slip of paper but the house was too far away, in Queens, so they stood in a doorway shivering.
What can I do, he frantically thought, in one short hour?
He remembered the furniture in the house. It was junk but might bring a few dollars. “Come, Isaac.” They went once more to the pawnbroker's to talk to him, but the shop was dark and an iron gate—rings and gold watches glinting through it—was drawn tight across his place of business.
They huddled behind a telephone pole, both freezing. Isaac whimpered.
“See the big moon, Isaac. The whole sky is white.”
He pointed but Isaac wouldn't look.
Mendel dreamed for a minute of the sky lit up, long sheets of light in all directions. Under the sky, in California, sat Uncle Leo drinking tea with lemon. Mendel felt warm but woke up cold.
Across the street stood an ancient brick synagogue.
He pounded on the huge door but no one appeared. He waited till he had breath and desperately knocked again. At last there were footsteps within, and the synagogue door creaked open on its massive brass hinges.
A darkly dressed sexton, holding a dripping candle, glared at them.
“Who knocks this time of night with so much noise on the synagogue door?”
Mendel told the sexton his troubles. “Please, I would like to speak to the rabbi.”
“The rabbi is an old man. He sleeps now. His wife won't let you see him. Go home and come back tomorrow.”
“To tomorrow I said goodbye already. I am a dying man.”
Though the sexton seemed doubtful he pointed to an old wooden house next door. “In there he lives.” He disappeared into the synagogue with his lit candle casting shadows around him.
Mendel, with Isaac clutching his sleeve, went up the wooden steps and rang the bell. After five minutes a big-faced, gray-haired bulky woman came out on the porch with a torn robe thrown over her nightdress. She emphatically said the rabbi was sleeping and could not be waked.
But as she was insisting, the rabbi himself tottered to the door. He listened a minute and said, “Who wants to see
me let them come in.”
They entered a cluttered room. The rabbi was an old skinny man with bent shoulders and a wisp of white beard. He wore a flannel nightgown and black skullcap; his feet were bare.
“Vey is mir,” his wife muttered. “Put on shoes or tomorrow comes sure pneumonia.” She was a woman with a big belly, years younger than her husband. Staring at Isaac, she turned away.
Mendel apologetically related his errand. “All I need more is thirty-five dollars.”
“Thirty-five?” said the rabbi's wife. “Why not thirty-five thousand? Who has so much money? My husband is a poor rabbi. The doctors take away every penny.”
“Dear friend,” said the rabbi, “if I had I would give you.”
“I got already seventy,” Mendel said, heavy-hearted. “All I need more is thirty-five.”
“God will give you,” said the rabbi.
“In the grave,” said Mendel. “I need tonight. Come, Isaac.”
“Wait,” called the rabbi.
He hurried inside, came out with a fur-lined caftan, and handed it to Mendel.
“Yascha,” shrieked his wife, “not your new coat!”
“I got my old one. Who needs two coats for one body?”

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